Venice.

All my life I have cried for Venice,
The city built for mermaids
And sailing boats.

The city where the descendants of Ancient Rome
Are born with webbed feet and fins
And can swim like fishes

Months before they ever learn to walk.

The city where I learned to dance on water,
Transported by the music of Vivaldi
High above translucent moss green waves.

But now the seas have turned as black as ink,
Darkened by the smoke from fossil fuels
That stoke the fires of a billion factories,

Factories as far away as Philadelphia.

The black ink pours across the floors of marble
(That glisten under moonlight in St. Marks)
And stains the gilded chapels and the altar

With a rime of filth that stinks of kerosene.
And the people cough and retch in putrid air
As they struggle knee deep through acidic slime,

Slime that suffocates mute swans and fishes.

Throughout my life I have cried for fragile Venice.
At first my tears were tears of love and exile,
But now my tears are tears of loss and rage.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
13th. November 2019.